


relapse - spencer reid angst

by fanficsfam



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Derek Morgan fanfic, Spencer Reid - Freeform, Spencer Reid Angst, Spencer Reid Fluff, Spencer Reid Smut, Spencer Reid fanfic, criminal minds - Freeform, mattew gray gubler, mattew gray gubler angst, mattew gray gubler fluff, mattew gray gubler x reader, spencer reid x reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:47:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25082614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanficsfam/pseuds/fanficsfam
Summary: a fic where spencers addiction is actually taken seriously and realistically unlike in the show smh.spencer turns to alcohol to cope with his addiction and it doesnt turn out like he had planned.content warning- alcohol use, drug use, overdose
Kudos: 49





	relapse - spencer reid angst

**POV SPENCER**

"Oh come on pretty boy!" Derek begs, "Come out with us, loosen up a little!"

I look away from Derek's eyes before they burn a metaphorical hole in my skull and stare at my unsteady hands as they rest in my lap. I know they can tell something's up with me, they've been able to tell since they walked me off that graveyard so drugged up I could barely stand. I also know Derek has been trying to keep me away from home unless I'm sleeping in order to keep me from using. He's been inviting me to go out or hang out at his place every night for the past two weeks and three days.

I'm six months, one week, and six days clean from dilaudid but lately everything is getting to me and I can hear the viles calling to me from the box under my bathroom sink. Derek can tell, and at this point I'm so tired from a combination of him hounding me and the urge to relapse I might just say yes.

"What am I supposed to do with my car, Morgan?" I ask, looking back to the man leaning against my desk.

"Oh come on, you're supposed to be the genius. Were you planning on going out in a suit? Go home and get into more comfortable clothes, I'll have our Uber stop at your place before we go to the club." He pushes, pleading to me with his eyes.

I pause before releasing a grumbled "Oh, fine." and turning back to my work. Morgan shoots his fists up in the air and shouts a victorious "We got him!" to Penelope and Prentiss who were watching quietly from Prentiss's desk. At least I'll be a few miles away from relapsing tonight.

\---

I step out of the Uber after Emily and look up at the club, starting to regret agreeing to come along. We walk inside and find our way to the bar, Emily and Penelope taking a seat on the open stools while Morgan and I stand.

They begin ordering their drinks while I scan the crowd on the dance floor. The statistical chance of at least some of them being black out drunk currently is astounding, and the chance of some being high is equally as much. I tear my eyes from the crowd and find my hands clasped around each other in front of me, shaking. The urges are more pungent in an environment like this and I had some how forgotten to count that factor in when agreeing to join them. I wonder how many people in that crowd are on dilaudid-

"Pretty boy?" Derek snaps his fingers in front of my face. I clear my throat quickly and look up to make eye contact.

"Uhm, yes?" I squeeze out, looking towards Garcia and Prentiss just to see them giving me a look.

"What are you getting? You have to drink something, you never come out with us." Emily asks, elbowing me lightly to further grab my attention.

"Oh um, I don't really drink." I remind them, seeing Penelope smile and shake her head as Morgan rolls his eyes and turns to the bartender.

"He'll have two shots of tequila."

"Woah Morgan, no no no, that's a lot to start off with." I cut in, eyeing Morgan before looking to the barkeeper with apologetic eyes.

"He'll have two, it's on me." Morgan flashes the woman a smile before looking back to me with a smirk. Emily and Penelope giggle and stand up, sipping on their freshly made cocktails.

"And a scotch on the rocks and a whisky neat, please ma'am." He adds on, handing the bartender his card. She nods and turns to swipe it and begin the drinks.

"Morgan!" I quietly shout, "Are you trying to make me sick?"

"Oh come on Reid, you of all people know you wont get sick from a couple of shots and a drink." Garcia pipes in, lightly hitting my shoulder.

"Yeah and besides, the whisky is for me. I know you prefer scotch." Morgan laughs, reaching for one of the two shots that the bartender presented us with. The girls mention they're off to find us a booth and begin weaving their way through the crowd.

"I've actually never had whisky, so jokes on you." I mutter, taking the shot from him and taking it with a swing of my head back. I set the glass down on the bar and reach for the other as the bartender sets our drinks on the bar in front of us.

"Oh really? Well tonight you can try it, We'll switch." Morgan smiles, grabbing the scotch as I take the second shot, grimacing at the taste and burn.

"How considerate of you, I don't even get ice." I joke, grabbing the whisky as we turn and find our way to the booth the girls were waving us to.

“I’ll give you the damn ice Reid.” He laughs, moving into the spot next to Emily. I take the open seat next to Garcia as Morgan is fishing the ice cubes from his drink and plopping them into my glass.

“Do you know how much bacteria you just transferred into my drink by touching those ice cubes?” I ask him, causing the group to laugh.

“Reid just drink it! It’s alcohol anyway, doesn’t that mean it kills it?” Emily asks, I chose to pretend it was a rhetorical question, so I shut up and take a sip from my drink. The taste is good and the burn isn’t as bad as the horrid tequila I had to drink a few minutes ago.

As everyone else finishes their drinks Penelope suggests we all go dance.

“No way guys, I don’t dance. I already came with you all tonight, don’t push it.” I joke, making them all groan.

“Whatever you say boy wonder, let me out so I can shake what my mama gave me!” Penelope says, causing us all to laugh. I move out of the seat and take it back as they make their way to the dance floor.

I take another sip of the whiskey and stare at the wood patterns on the table. I’m quite buzzed, seeing as two shots of tequila and a few drinks of whisky on on empty stomach can do that to someone as skinny as me. I just didn’t have time to eat today, and I’m not sure I trust club food to be enjoyable. I’ll just have to eat something when I get home tonight, and drink water so I don’t end up feeling sick. I finish off the whiskey and go back to scanning the crowd, feeling lighter than before.

I decide to get up and go to the bar for a glass of water. After I order, I look down to my vibrating hands set on the bar. And then I realize they’re not vibrating. Or shaking or unsteady, and then I realize I haven’t felt the urge to run to my bathroom and tear out the box under the sink since I started to feel buzzed.

As the bartender returns with my water I hand her my card and quickly ask for another whiskey with ice. She nods and smiles, turning to swipe my card before handing it back to me and grabbing a glass for my drink.

I suppose it makes sense that alcohol would distract me from dilaudid. Just trading one kind of high for another. Alcohol, when regulated, is less damaging for the body than other drugs, and easier to buy. Maybe this is the answer, at least for now.

I take my drink and find my way back to the booth, drinking half of it in one gulp and sitting it on the table in front of me. I turn back to the crowd and scan it for my friends.

\---

Another glass of whiskey, neat this time, later and I’m comfortably drunk. I feel lighter and heavier at the same time. I feel not a single urge to dive into my sink cabinet and it makes me so happy, I actually go out and dance with my friends. I make a complete fool of myself, but after finally feeling free from dilaudid after the completely nonstop urge calling to me for three weeks and four days straight, I don’t care. I thought I had gotten better these past six months, not yearning for the release the drug gives me as often, but I supposed these last few cases have certainly made my mental health worse and triggered me to so badly want a relapse.

But right now I’ve finally gotten a break.

I uber home and fall asleep comfortably in my bed as soon as I hit the pillow, but when I wake up the urge is back.

\---

Sure, It may seem suspicious to a group of profilers that know me incredibly well when _I_ suggest we go out drinking the following Friday, but Morgan must have told them how much fun I seemed to have last time I accompanied them because they all shrug it off and agree. I spend that night the same as before, except I’m not as reluctant to take a couple shots when we get there. Morgan makes a joke about how I’m warming up to the scene when I order a whiskey neat, and how he’s proud he introduced me to my new favourite drink. After spending that week walking aimlessly around the streets of D.C. after work to avoid returning to the that dreaded bathroom cabinet, drinking to get rid of that stupid drug calling to me feels like the best release I could have imagined. I spend the rest of the night the same as last Friday, dancing with my friends and not worrying about how when I wake up in the morning, I know I’ll be right back where I started.

\---

The following Friday, I don’t ask to go out. It seems too suspicious to go out 3 Fridays in a row, 2 of them initiated by me. So instead I make up something about seeing some movie about math that I knew they wouldn’t be interested in and head to the liquor store closest to my apartment. I go in with my ID in hand and come out with a bottle of Jack Daniels before driving home and pouring myself a glass. Immediately, relief washes over me and I swallow the rest of the drink like a shot, pouring myself another. For that night, I use the bathroom without even looking at the cabinet under my sink.

It was only that Wednesday before I couldn’t handle it anymore and drank again after I got off work. Of course, Thursday morning Hotch called us in early for a case in Kentucky. I push sunglasses over my eyes, practically chugging water as we walk onto the jet. Working hungover is not the best idea, but neither was drinking on a week night.

After a day of starring at children’s mutilated bodies and studying the patterns of an apparent new serial killer, when I arrived in my hotel room that night seeing the mini bar gave me much more relief than I wish it did.

\---

“Spencer are you okay?” Hotch asks, causing me to snap out of my apparent trance and make eye contact.

“Yeah just um, tired. I guess.” I say, trailing off towards the end.

In reality I was starring at my hands, hoping they don’t start to shake and thinking about how badly I wanted to go home and stick a needle in my arm as soon as this jet lands. That case with those kids was too much. Especially when it ended with finding the unsub shooting up right in front of the last kid he took, threatening that he would be next.

“Alright. Let me know if you need anything.” Hotch says, nodding, then moving to an open seat to sleep on the ride back to Quantico.

I close my eyes in attempt to get a good night sleep but instead dream of Tobias Hankle and his magic needles.

\---

I close the door to my apartment probably a little too aggressively. I drop my satchel on my couch and take a few steps towards the bathroom when I force myself to stop, and turn to the kitchen. I head straight to the quarter empty bottle of Jack Daniels with my hand outreached. Grabbing the bottle I screw off the lid and take a swig, not bothering to get a glass out. I wait for the relief to flood over me but it doesn’t come immediately, so I take another drink, and another, and one more before the relief I craved slowly trickles its way into my brain and through my body. I take one more chug for good luck before grabbing the cap and screwing it back on. I set the bottle back on the counter and walk back through the kitchen into the living room to grab my bag off the couch. I pick it up and walk it to my desk, setting it down and unloading any unnecessary paperwork that I wont need at work on Monday and keep the stuff I didn’t drop off when I got back inside it. After a little while I can’t ignore the need to empty my bladder any longer so I head to the bathroom. Standing outside the door I take a deep breath before opening it and stare at the stupid sink cabinet. I attempt to take a step forward, but find my legs going their own direction, back towards the kitchen. Without my permission my arms reach out to grab the bottle of whiskey and I take another swig, cap it, then toss it on my couch on my way back to the bathroom. I’m drunk enough now that I sway a little when I walk and I almost trip over the trim that separates the hallway carpet and the tiled bathroom floor. I pee quickly and wash my hands, making minimal glares toward the cabinet, and head straight back to the bottle waiting for me on the couch.

Maybe if I drink a little more the urge will go away again. I look down to my hands to see them shaking. I reach for the bottle and take a short chug, feeling the drink burn my throat on the way down. I fall to the couch, my hand still around the neck of the bottle, and stare at the ceiling. For what felt like a year, but was only probably 20 minutes, I starred at each individual bump on my popcorn textured ceiling. Making constellations like I did as a kid. Absentmindedly taking drinks from the bottle without thinking about it, like it was muscle memory. And I drift off slowly only to be shoved into the images of children’s skulls smashed in over and over and then the needle sticking out of the unsub’s arm.

I jerk awake and look to my clock. It’s 11:17 P.M., we arrived back at 10. I couldn’t have been asleep more than 15 minutes, the bottle is still firmly in my hand. It’s astounding what my brain can force me to relive in such a short amount of time.

I take another swig.

Starring at the wall, images of the six children that were brutally murdered flash across my vision. Then an image of the unsub and his stupid fucking needle. I watch him inject it into his arm.

“You’re next.” His gravelly voice says to the seven year old child tied up in front of him.

I’m next.

I take another swig and stand up. I’m absolutely wasted. I look to the bottle and see that its now almost three-quarters empty. Maybe like 70%.

“Why does that matter.” I mutter to myself and wobble to the bathroom. I nearly fall a couple times before I make it to my sink. I brace myself on the edge of the counter and stare at myself in the mirror.

My hair is completely disheveled, a mess. My pupils are dilated and the dress shirt I’m wearing is crumpled and creased. I unbutton two buttons from the top and look down to my hands. Undoing the cuff button I stare myself down in the mirror again.

I was doing this.

Six months and something weeks and blah blah days who cares I just want the urge to stop. I want to stop feeling like a magnet drawn to something that I know will destroy me. Might as well let it do it.

I take one last sip of the bottle and set it on the counter, dropping to my knees and swinging open the cabinet doors. I shove boxes and bottle of cleaners aside and reach the small box in the back, ripping the lid off and retrieving a needle and vile. I lean backwards and land on my butt, then continue back to lean my shoulders against the wall. Pulling my sleeve up, I feel a comfort begin to take over me. I get a dose, press the needle into my arm, and feel it take over. I hear ringing, maybe it’s God. My eyes close but I’m not sure when.

**POV MORGAN, 10 P.M.**

Reid rushes off the jet faster than I’ve seen him before.

“Woah kid, where you off to in such a rush?” I ask, grabbing his shoulder which makes him face me.

“Just tired, want to get home to sleep.” He answers quickly, too quickly. I let go of his shoulder and nod suspiciously.

“Alright man, be safe. Call me if you need anything.” I tell him, earning a fast nod as he turns back around and rushes off, not even bothering to head back inside to drop off paperwork at his desk like he does every time we get back from a case.

The rest of the team decides to head straight home too aside from Hotch, Garcia, and I. We walk together back inside and go to our respective desks to finish up or file away any paperwork from the case. But I can’t get the way Reid left out of my head. And he was acting strange on the flight back as well, I can’t help but feel it’s because of what he found the unsub doing.

Before I leave to go home, I head to Hotch’s office. I knock on the door despite it being open and am greeted with his monotoned “Come in.”

“Was Reid acting strange to you at all?” I ask him, Hotch immediately nodding his head lightly.

“Yes, I asked him about it on the jet and he said he was okay.” Hotch replied, folding his hands in front of him on his desk.

“And you believed him?” I ask, getting a silent shake of his head as an answer. “Good because I don’t either.”

“Give him a call, Derek. I’m sure if it’s bad enough he may want to talk.” Hotch says, earning a nod from me.

“Alright, I’ll give him a call when I get home. Night Hotch.”

“Night.”

\---

I throw my go bag full of dirty clothes on the floor next to my couch as I enter my apartment, pulling out my phone as I throw myself on the couch. I find Reid’s contact and press call, looking to the electronic clock on the side table. It’s almost 11:30 so he should still be awake, he never sleeps this early. Usually up reading one of his books for the 400th time. When he doesn’t answer I get his voicemail. I leave a message telling him to call me back but a sinking feeling in my gut settles out of nowhere. I call again. And again. And one more time, all sent to voice mail. If he was sleeping he’d be awake by now and Reid doesn’t just ignore my calls, at least not when I call multiple times.

The sinking feeling in my stomach just gets worse as I stand back up and grab my keys, heading back to my car.

I pull up to Reid’s apartment building and practically throw myself out of the car and through the buildings doors. I practically run up the stairs, the closer I get to his door the more I feel like something is terribly wrong.

I reach his door and knock once, twice, three times, before pulling out the spare key he gave me and letting myself in.

“Reid?” I shout, shutting the door behind me.

“Boy wonder where are you?” I yell again, checking his living room and kitchen before heading to his bedroom. When I find his bed still neatly made I run back down the hallway and stop when I notice the bathroom light on and door open. Peaking my head inside my heart stops.

“Reid!” I yell, kneeling to the floor instantly. I shake him and keep calling his name before I look around the room.

A nearly gone bottle of Jack Daniels sits on the counter and-

“Oh god, oh no Spencer.” I say to myself, picking up the empty bottle and checking the label.

Dilaudid. I lean over his body to search for the needle and find it on the other side, on the floor by his arm.

“Reid, fuck, no!” I yell and shake him one more time before calling 911.

“I think my friend overdosed or something man, dilaudid and alcohol, send an ambulance!” I say into the phone before the operator even finishes his line. I give him the address and hang up to call Hotch.

“Hotchner-”

“Hotch its Reid, I think he OD’ed. There’s an almost empty bottle of whisky and a needle and en empty thing of dilaudid and god Hotch, I-” I feel tears start to come to my eyes. I push them back and take a breath.

“Derek do you need me to come?”

“No I called for an ambulance we’ll be at the hospital in probably 15 minutes they’re on their way.” I tell him, continuing to check Spencer’s slowing pulse and attempt to shake him awake. “Hotch you don’t get it, I’m the one who made him drink with us a few weeks ago, wh-what if he realized it helped and this happened because of me? I thought it was weird that he asked us the next week-”

“Derek. This is not your fault. I need you to calm down, this is about Reid right now he needs you to calm down, okay? I’ll inform the rest of the team he’s going to the hospital.”

“Okay.” I take a breath. “Thanks Hotch.” I hang up as paramedics come in through the unlocked door.

\---

**SPENCER POV**

I open my eyes, but immediately close them again.

“Agh, that’s bright.” I mutter.

“Reid?” I hear Morgan’s voice next to me. I turn my head and squint in his direction.

“God what happened?” I ask, moving my arm to block the florescent light, only to find out my arm is attached to a string of tubes. “Oh.” I say, inspecting them while Morgan called for doctors.

“You OD’ed, Spence.” He says.

“I, I what?” I ask, surprised. I look to him and then remember.

“You OD’ed on half a bottle of alcohol and dilaudid.”

“Oh, well that was an accident.” I attempt to joke, not prepared for the dilaudid talk all over again, or the pitiful stares that come with it.

“Reid.” Morgan says quietly, shaking his head. “The doctors said if I made it to your house 30 minutes later you may have been gone. You almost died.”

“Oh.”

“Not often that you’re speechless, boy wonder.” He jokes, making a light smile cross my face.

“Not often I wake up in a hospital attached to several tubes, two of which seem to be beeping.” I joke back, stalling.

We sit in silence as doctors come in to inform me of specifics and check vitals.

“The rest of your team will be in in a minute. They're downstairs in the lobby.” The doctor tells me.

“Okay.” I say. He nods and leaves, then it was just me and Morgan again.

“Reid, why were you even drinking at all. I thought you didn’t drink. And,” he pauses, trying to word his next line gently, “how long have you been using dilaudid again? Or was this just a relapse?” He asks, looking me in the eyes. I stay quiet.

“Was it- did it start because I made you drink with us at the club?” He asks, looking down.

“No.” I immediately speak up, sitting up straighter in the bed. “I mean- no it’s not your fault. So don’t think that for a second.”

“Then, why Spencer?” He asks, looking back up to me. I pause before answering.

“I’ve been... struggling. For the past few weeks I’ve felt almost physically drawn to the cabinet where I hid the last of the dilaudid.” I say quietly. “I don’t know why I never just got rid of it, maybe it gave me comfort knowing it was there if I needed it. And it was fine, for a long time. Over six months, I was clean. It was getting easier, I wasn’t thinking about it nonstop. But then, I think the cases we were working got more and more stressful and that's when it started up again.” I stop to breath and look at him for a second before my eyes quickly find me hands clasped in my lap.

“The longing for it. The need for it. I tried to ignore it, but it was getting so hard and I know you guys could tell something was wrong. I’m not the most ideal person to hang out with daily outside of work yet you asked me to anyway.” I smiled quickly. “And the night you asked me to go with you guys to the club was an especially hard day. I didn’t wanna be at home, so I said yes.

“And then I drank because I thought, hey maybe it really will help me ‘let loose’, you know? And the more I drank, the more I realized that when I was buzzed or drunk, I wasn’t thinking about dilaudid.” I clear my throat and look back to Derek. “The more I drank, the longer the urge was gone.” He nods at me in understanding.

“But it was not your fault so don’t pull that. It was my decision to drink that night and my decision to invite us all to go again the next Friday and my decision to go to the liquor store the next and drink at home alone, and then again Wednesday night, and then again at the hotel in Kentucky. Because god, Morgan, for the first time in a long time I wasn’t thinking about that stupid drug.” I look at him, probably smiling like a maniac, and look away again.

“And I figured alcohol is less damaging to you than the drug is so it’s a safer trade than relapsing. And then the case in Kentucky just kept going. I was looking at pictures of smashed up kids all day and finally when I found the unsub sticking a needle in his arm, I couldn’t get the image out of my head. So when I got home, I almost did it. I walked through the door and almost went straight to the bathroom, but I stopped and went for the whisky instead because it _helped_.”

I stare at Morgan, watching the pity fill his eyes.

“And I know you shouldn’t trade one addiction for another, but that wasn’t the plan.”

“Just like you getting kidnapped and addicted to dilaudid wasn't the plan.” Morgan says quietly. I chose to ignore him and continue.

“But I just kept seeing the kids and the unsub shooting up and I kept drinking waiting for it to help and when it didn’t I was too drunk to say no to my own logic so I did it. And I’m sorry I did because it has caused you and probably the team so much stress.” I say and finally stop. I stare at my hands and don’t move my eyes until fingers cup under my chin for my attention. Penelope’s tear stained face is a several inches from mine.

“You don’t need to be sorry for us you need to be sorry for you. You have to get help, Reid. You can’t do this alone and you shouldn't be ashamed to feel like that.” She says, burning holes into my eyes with hers.

I look past her to see Emily, Hotch, and JJ as well. JJ has been crying and Emily is wiping tears, pretending she hasn’t.

“Okay.” I say quietly. “I’ll get more help.” The team collectively sigh in relief and flash me a mixture of happy and proud smiles.

“Now where the hell are my clothes, paper dresses aren’t exactly my style.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr too!
> 
> fanficsfam.tumblr.com


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